


Harry Potter and the Remembrance Record

by breakdowngoddess



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Also Werewolves, Auror Harry Potter, Depressed Harry, Epilogue Compliant for the most part--then it all goes to hell, F/M, M/M, Marauders, Therapy, magic book, memories and trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23860450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakdowngoddess/pseuds/breakdowngoddess
Summary: Just when he thought all was well and his adventures were over, Harry finds a small mysterious book containing unpredictable magic and memories, leading Harry down an unmitigated and life-altering path of self-discovery as he comes to terms with his identity, his trauma, and the secrets contained within the lives of the people he loves.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Harry Potter/Oliver Wood, Sirius Black/Remus Lupin
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue: Number 17 Wanstead Park, 1980

Number 17 Wanstead Park Avenue was located in East London, on a quiet residential street that no one would ever expect as a place of magical history. It usually wasn’t. The brick houses were lined up in a row, each differing from the mold, but all relatively average. Flat number 17 was a seemingly typical, orderly place on the outside. The same could not be said of the interior, or the man now frantically knocking on the door. This man was supporting himself against the doorframe, his clothing out of place, wearing long robes ripped and patched in several places, the torn fabric barely draped over his lanky frame. His face sported a noticeable scar, it looked as if a creature scratched the entire length of his temple to his chin, two claws, two lines.

The door to number 17 opened and a handsome, dark-haired wizard took one look at the panicked man on his doorstep and pulled him inside, taking his freezing hand to steady him, ensuring that he would not fall over.

Sirius Black helped the distraught Remus Lupin take off his shabby cloak and waited as he untangled his scarf. Then, familiar with the layout of the flat, Remus led the way into the modest, muggle sitting room. This room was dark, a small lamp floating in the corner casting long shadows of the lean werewolf shifting about the room. Remus delicately made his way around Sirius’s seemingly average possessions, many of which were tinkered with to perform various tasks with a flick of Sirius’s delicately carved wand. The coffee table, for example, could be easily persuaded into doing an entertaining tap dance, when the need arose.

“Remus. What happened?” Sirius Black waited until his friend had sat down on the ordinary couch before he started his questioning. Remus Lupin looked up and met Sirius’s concerned grey stare.“I-I found him. G-Greyback... The one who-who bit me.” Sirius’s eyes widened and he took a second to sit down next to the trembling man. Remus was ordered not to tell anyone of his mission to infiltrate the werewolf community, but he would never keep anything from Sirius and James, Dumbledore knew that and trusted him to use his discretion.

“I was in this-this pub… Which I knew that many of Vold---You Know Who’s known werewolf colleagues resided within, and I, I started feeling this creeping, cold hand stand the hairs up on the back of my neck and as I turned around, he walked in. I just knew it was him… The eyes and the way that he moved… He was the one who turned me into this monster.” Tears started spilling down Remus’s lightly scarred cheeks, and Serius was immediately taken aback, it was like seeing a solid wall crumbling to dust. Remus didn’t cry in front of anyone, certainly not in front of Sirius. Not like this. Not in his arms. A sniffle from the other bed in the Gryffindor common room or a sob in the showers wasn’t unheard of, but to have him so exposed was unsettling. Sirius spoke in a low rumbling whisper, turning the other man’s head towards his.

“You know that I have never thought of you as a monster. Ever. You’re Remus-- you’re our Moony- the wolf is a tiny part of you. And if I ever find this Greyback asshole I will rip his windpipe from his throat, hear me?” Sirius took Remus’s shoulders and made him look into his eyes. “He won’t hurt you. Not if I’m there.”

It did some good, Remus attempted a smile, but this only brought him back to that night, as a young boy, that Grayback snuck into his window, hungry for vengeance and flesh. That was the night that Remus’s life changed, where he lost all hope of an average life, a steady job, a stereotypical family. Everything was torturous until Dumbledore arrived and swept him from his doorstep into the loving home of Hogwarts. Into Sirius, James, Lily, and Peter. His relief and slight slip into gratefulness only allowed him to sob harder, flustering the caring man in front of him.  
“Moony..Oh hell..Remus…” Sirius was at a complete lack for words. The terror that would come from facing the man who wrecked your life, yet having to seem not at all perturbed, and needing to simply accept his existence, that could be easily classified as hell. Sirius watched as Remus, younger than him in age, but never in maturity, sighed wearily, looking sad beyond his years as he sank against the couch and leaned against Sirius’s shoulder.

They had no more need for words, as they knew each other so completely, never lost in any falsities nor frivolities.  
Sirius had not found the need to turn on the light and simply listened to the patter of rain as the night progressed. Even as Remus shivering sobs slowly decreased and he became a slumbering weight against Sirius’s shoulder, and then, he shifted and rested his head on Sirius’ lap. Sirius could not bring himself to fall asleep and succumb to the possibility that he would be unavailable in Remus’s time of need. He always knew that Remus would be there for him in the same fashion.

Remus only shifted when day broke, the weight of his head on Sirius’s thigh decreasing as he woke, and he eventually sat up and massaged a crick in his neck. Taking the opportunity to stretch, Sirius stood up and made his way towards the kitchen, knowing that Remus would join him when he was fully awake. Having this independence in his own apartment was wonderful, something that he still marveled at after the years he had spent living in the oppressive atmosphere that permeated the walls of his family home. This flat was a welcome change, and before he started making breakfast, he glanced back into the living room, watching as Remus leaned over a small leather-bound book, his eyes closed. Sirius could feel the deep emotion and magic pouring out of Remus as he turned away, a grim set to his jaw. If only this war would end, and they could forge a life for themselves, bereft of trauma and pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is just a quick prologue before I get into the meat of the story. Seeing as I have nothing else to do in Quarantine, I plan to post quite regularly. I greatly appreciate your kudos and comments! They mean the world.


	2. Chapter 2

Pieces of parchment lay strewn about the room, aged and wrinkled and covered in different shades of ink, completely faded by the years. It appeared that nothing in this room had escaped this treatment, the years and the sun from the window fading and memorializing the world within the four walls. Stepping into this room was like stepping into a different time, even after it was abandoned for how many years now. Sirius Black’s room was a time machine, leading back to the world in which the handsome, dark-haired teenager brooded, and where the much more world-weary, gaunt thirty-year-old wizard had returned. A piercing remembrance of his life, and his death.

“Harry…” This was Ginny, behind Harry, placing her delicate hand on her husband’s back. Harry continued to watch the dust particles float above the parchment lying on the floor, but he noticed the unspoken question in Ginny’s voice and made some effort to release the memories that captured him.

“Yes, yes. I’m fine.” He turned, to see his wife’s inquisitive brown eyes ponder what he had just said, before settling on stubborn disbelief in his former statement. 

“It’s.. Just… Sirius. Lupin. My dad… Mum… Fred.. Tonks. I just remembered them all of a sudden… but, yes. I am fine.” Harry decided on saying that. Easier than telling her everyone that had just crossed his mind. Cedric. Mad-eye. Dumbledore. Aberforth. Colin Creevey. Wormtail. Regulus. And even Malfoy. Everyone that he didn’t get to fully understand. To forgive. To move on from. To finally gain closure from the innocent and tainted lives that were both lost and neglected in his mind. Harry was reminded of every person that he had ever seen as being so human, so vulnerable, regardless of how he had felt about them in other moments. All their flaws are completely overrun by the utter realness of it. The painful, blissful truth of spirit and personality. 

“I know…” Harry heard Ginny start her sentence, and then she seemed at a loss for words. She simply caressed his shoulder and headed towards Regulus Black’s room, which would be morally easier to remodel.

As soon as he heard the door creak open to Regulus’s room below, Harry slunk over and sank into Sirius’s large bed, and did his best not to cry. Even after all these years, he did not want Ginny to see him. These walls, papered with the gaudy Gryffindor house colors and revealing photos of muggle women were everything, but seemingly nothing, of what his godfather was. Harry hadn’t asked enough questions of Sirius. Didn’t ask what he had wished to do with his life, or if he had ever been in love. Didn’t ask about all the pranks that he orchestrated at Hogwarts, or what it was like to transform into a dog and protect Lupin. For that matter, Harry hadn’t appreciated Lupin enough, nor made an effort to understand why, in a weak moment, the man would wish to leave his wife. He understood him on a deeper level at that moment, but Harry didn’t feel like he knew the past well enough to move on. Could a book be closed with only the end chapters complete, leaving the middle and beginning lacking and sparse? Harry was completely aware of his blessings but also the trepidations that came from survival. Hermione would have tutted at him in this moment, muttering something about survivor's guilt. 

“You really must go see Dr. Clearwater, Harry. She’d help, I’m telling you! We all need to process what happened, no matter how long ago it was-- you more than anyone--and you’ve got free time now. She told me you didn’t drop by last Thursday, like you said you would. Please, Harry. Even Ron’s going to her now.” Harry remembered her winding her dark bushy hair into a bun as she lectured him, that ever constant worry line between her eyebrows as she looked at him last Tuesday, as they sat down, waiting for Mrs. Weasley to come give them instructions on how she wanted them to help with preparations for dinner. She never let them help, but they felt obliged anyway. 

Ginny and Harry hadn’t touched the Black brother’s rooms in all these years, even when they had sent their sons to Hogwarts, and much more free time to spend on remodeling number 12 Grimmauld Place. Ginny and Harry just turned their attention to their daughter, showering Lilly with all the affection that they could muster. The house was now cheery, a representation of all the companionship that had inhabited it, covered in homely representations of their children’s personalities. It was a place made for children, for a married couple living their life. Ginny suggested that once Lily left for Hogwarts, they would have the time and the motivation to finally approach the two rooms hidden away, and in the moment Harry agreed. Harry didn’t consider that Lily going to Hogwarts was actually ever going to happen, but this past September, there they were, a little family unit pushing Lily’s trolley, dropping all three of their children off at Kings Cross station. 

Returning home to Grimmauld Place was difficult. The nest was empty, and all Harry could do was stare at Lily’s room, at the absence of her favorite books and clothes that she had packed into her school trunk. Ginny seemed to be, to an extent, less bothered by the absence of the Potter children than Harry was. She dove into work, and her career blossomed in the weeks and months after Lily left, and she was away from home more than ever. Covering the lead up to the Quidditch season along with the wizarding world’s sudden and revamped interest in muggle rugby, Ginny traveled to every match for the Scottish National Rugby Union. She offered for Harry to join her, but Harry could never understand the point of Rugby. It reminded him of the brutish violent ways of his cousin, Dudley, memories he would rather not relive. 

Ever since Harry had graduated from Hogwarts, he and Dudley had slowly made amends, and every other month they would meet up at the same muggle cafe and discuss their children, and their lives. Somehow, these interactions never felt forced, instead, it was like Harry and Dudley found a certain refuge in one another, having been raised in two different versions of the same abusive household. Dudley would often share the advice his therapist had given him that week and Harry took comfort in knowing that Dudley too came out of Number 4 Privet Drive with his own set of scars. Not that this was a nice thing to contemplate, but it gave Harry peace of mind to have contact with the reformed version of his former tormentor. Maybe this was why his mind was so constantly bugged by the unresolved Malfoy situation. He had never given the pointy git any chance of redemption, it pulled at his memories and made Harry much more sympathetic towards anyone displaying bullying behavior. It was possible these people would turn into reformed versions of themselves given the resources. 

Dust still played in the air as Harry contemplated the tribulations of his cousin and classmates, the room untouched when it should have been well on it’s way to renovation by now. Harry shuttered to think that the last person to tear through these drawers was not it’s owner, but a disgruntled Snape on the hunt for some sign of his lost love. Snape. Another Slytherin bully who never had the time or space to become truly reformed. A menace for sure, but someone who could love deeply and become so driven by it that he’d risk his life. This room felt like a time capsule, something Harry wasn’t ready to let go of yet. It was, after all, his one last strand attaching his godfather’s presence to this house, as they had long ago removed the last remanence of the black family tree, hiring three ministry wizards to finally take down Walaburga’s portrait and the dismembered heads of the house-elves. They did those things early on, right after Ginny moved in with Harry. Their friends gathered together to try and truly cleanse the house, and Harry could still remember the shrillness in Hermione’s voice as she insisted they buried each house-elf head in a marked grave. Ron rolled his eyes and Harry dragged his feet, but they managed to do it. Harry thought of Dobby each time they covered the tiny graves with dirt. 

Deciding it wasn’t enough to just sit on Sirius’s comforter and ponder the possibility of changing this room, at least Harry could look through its drawers and see what was worth keeping, and what he could let go of. 

Harry got down onto his knees with a groan and gathered the letters that were still strewn across the floor. He couldn’t really say why he left all of the parchment there, considering it was Snape who had strewn the contents of the still-open drawer so carelessly. He also couldn’t say why he spelled the door to Sirius’s room closed even when he’d already told his family not to go in there. He wanted this room to be exactly how they left it. How Sirius left it, and how Snape left it too. Harry looked through the papers in his hands, mainly letters and correspondences with other members of the order, and some older mementos from Hogwarts, including several Hogwarts letters and supply lists, which Sirius appeared not to throw out. He opened the first drawer in the desk and set the papers in there, on top of several similar-looking letters and memos. Harry then opened the next drawer down, which contained ink and several broken quills, some enchanted to write in rainbow, others to fix spelling and neaten handwriting. The ink pots were also broken, it was as if a tornado raged through the room, cracking glasses and spilling papers. Harry also found his Godfather’s O.W.L scores along with graded essays and his N.E.W.T scores. One of the drawers was firmly stuck closed, and after Harry jostled it for a while throwing alohomora at it several times, it shot open to reveal a number of muggle porno magazines with motorcycles, bodacious women and shirtless men on the cover. At seeing that, Harry laughed with mirth he hadn’t felt in years, a twinkle coming back into his emerald eyes as he leafed through the graphic pages of the unmoving muggle images. 

Harry uncovered toadstools and cigarettes and empty bottles of rum as he took apart the room, starting at the desk and then moving to the dresser and the open cabinets full of muggle records next to the archaic record player stuffed into the corner. He looked at faded record art of Bowie and Queen and Elton John, Black Sabbath, and Pink Floyd along with some alternative bands Harry didn’t recognise. Harry loved imagining Sirius turning up the noise to irk his mother and father, blasting angsty glam rock through the walls of Grimmauld Place. He made sure to put back the muggle music in order, so that it preserved the feel of the room. He still couldn’t really imagine remodeling it, for now he was simply tidying it up, distancing it in some way from the unruly nature of Sirius’s existence. 

Harry waved his wand and set several cleaning spells to work, watching as dust and dirt was swept up from each surface, leaving the windowsill and faded bed sheets gleaming dully, adopting a slightly more vibrant hue. Sitting down on the bed again, Harry was hit by a wave of exhaustion and sunk into the crimson down comforter. He heard Ginny moving around downstairs, and the pop of an absolutely ancient Kretcher as he moved about the house. A door opened and shut, causing a rattle throughout the house. There were footsteps and then Ginny was speaking to someone, he couldn’t tell who, as he heard the murmur of her voice through the open door, and the reply of a male voice, drifting away as they moved away from the main staircase. It was exhausting, trying to smile and be happy for Ginny. It wasn’t like he always was this way, like he was pretending for the past twenty years. Quite the opposite really, he was so enchanted by his beautiful wife and his energetic children early on. Harry thought of how he loved his job, the thrill and adrenaline of working being so sweet, being able to protect others again. He even felt relief and satisfaction at the calm monotony of deskwork and publicity that had slowly but surely begun absorbing his time as he moved up the ranks over the years. He had grown calm and confident with the rhythms of his life, of making dinners for his wife and kids during the week, of having Ginny call off to go to some work event, of meeting up with the Weasley clan and Hermione. He liked the time he got to spend with Neville and valued the games of quidditch that sometimes spontaneously happened on the weekends when Seamus and Dean were in town. He reveled in the magic community and visited Hogwarts, his first home, periodically. McGonagall was always happy to see him, escorting him up to the headmistress’s office and offering him tea and biscuits. 

Something had shifted though, as his children departed one by one, year by year, to go off to have their own adventures at Hogwarts. Suddenly Harry didn’t have the excuse of a doting parent, he was left alone and isolated with his grief. And there was grief, heavy like a dark cloud of magic, billowing behind him like the veil in the department of mysteries. He felt it follow him around, and he didn’t like the sensation of it’s grasp. There was something inevitable about it. 

Hermione was the first one to see it, his deep-rooted dissatisfaction, and that’s when she kept bringing up Dr. Clearwater. 

“Harry, it’s not taboo anymore! Wizarding therapy really has grown in the last fifteen years or so... And you remember Penny, don’t you? She dated Percy for a while. She’s a wonderful therapist Harry-- I’ve researched all of this and she’s blending muggle and traditional magic healing-- she’s doing wonders for Ron and I’s relationship.” She was intent about all of it, bringing it up and scheduling appointments. Every time that she scheduled an appointment, Harry would be all ready to go, floo powder in hand, and suddenly have a change of heart, and would go back to working on whatever case file he had at hand. 

Even Ron had gotten in on it, and every so often he would bring it up. “Mate-- I know how ‘mione can be about this, but really…it’s helpful. I didn’t think it would be but… it is. ”

Ginny didn’t seem to notice. Ginny wasn’t really home. And when she was home, all they talked about was the kids. It was a nice break from all the working and the late nights, worrying about the kids instead of having his head consumed by the past. _But really_ , _despite all this,_ Harry thought, _all is well_.

As Harry continued to perseverate over his missed appointments and Hermione’s badgering, he stretched and took a moment to swing his stockinged feet up onto the bed. He laid back onto the opulently embroidered red pillow. As he set his head down he felt something hard against his occipital bone. The pillow was thin, and beneath it he distinctly felt something flat and solid. Harry pushed himself up and picked up the pillow, tossing it to the other side of the bed. There was nothing there, nothing but the candy-striped bed sheets. But, when Harry probed his hand around where the pillow had been, he felt the hard, square object again. He pulled his hand away and watched as the air rippled around where it had just been. The air rippled, and he smelt burnt magic, like scorched water and oil, as he reached out and picked up what appeared to be an invisible, small book. Harry reached into his jeans and got out his wand, tapping it against the book, muttering _revelio_ under his breath. The shimmering air covering it quickly dissipated, the glamour running off the small bound book like water, and revealing it to Harry’s expectant emerald eyes.

The book was dark and worn, and appeared to be hand-bound, made of leather and crude stitches. He cracked open the volume to somewhere in the middle and saw date markings on the pages. Harry was immediately wary, remembering the last time a strange diary fell into his hands. This looked similar to the Riddle diary, but this journal was softer, and the dates on the pages were all handwritten in distinctive, looping handwriting. February 1989 one read, and flipping to the next page it was June 1992. The dates were mismatched and out of order, and skipped from day to day, and skipped some years and months altogether. Harry noticed that a quarter of the pages were blank altogether, as he gently flipped through the book. 

Harry shut the small journal, and watched, entranced, as it gleamed dully in his hands. There was embroidery delicately worked into the front cover, but the back was smooth and worn. There was a chord of leather attached at the spine that tied the little journal shut. It was untied when Harry had first found it, the cord hanging from the spine, enchanted to not be lost. Harry tried to tie the book closed, but it didn’t let him, the string of leather rebelling against his fingers and knotting to itself to keep the book open to his hands. He sighed and gave up, opening it to the first page. On the leather binding, words slowly appeared in that same looping writing, etching into the material like it was being written in that very moment. 

Reminiscence Record

Belonging to

One Remus John Lupin and Sirius Orion Black

Signed February 1976

Below this inscription two signatures appeared as if they were being written; the letters carved out carefully into the leather, one in dark black ink that stills shone brightly, the signature below it was more faded-as if the leather on which it was written was worn away. 

_Remus John Lupin_

_Sirius Black_

Harry couldn’t help but smile at the opulence of his godfather’s signature, the balance of sweeping style and a loose carelessness. He remembered that handwriting from letters he had gotten, and from the letters he had pulled out of the dresser drawers today. Its broad strokes were balanced against that of his former professors, which was tight and well thought out. He could see Sirius's large, elegant hand sweeping over the parchment, and Lupin’s careful, long fingers clutching the quill doing the same, just with more intention and thought. The dark cloud hovering in his mind throbbed at the memory of the two men sitting next to each other at the table, Remus watching Sirius, monitoring him with a careful gaze, ready to speak some soft words to calm Sirius's frightful passion and irritability. Harry didn’t know what to make of this diary, he found its presence in the room fascinating, especially that it was so well hidden. He was at once immensely curious, and cautious. It was strange that all of the pages were blank besides the dates, and it was clearly not meant to be found. He didn’t have any time to consider it though, as Ginny was now calling for him, and he couldn’t make out the words. Harry slipped the small book into the pocket of his unclasped robes and trotted down the stairs. 

“What is it Gin?” He called down after him, turning corners and coming to a halt at the base of the stairs.

“I said that Oliver Wood stopped by! We haven't seen him in ages.” Ginny called from the drawing room, and he could sense some tension in her words. 

Harry stood, frozen at the bottom of the stairs, glued to the same spot.

“Oh?” 

“Yes, Harry. We’re in the drawing room.” Harry could sense the notes of frustration in her voice, as she raised it for him to hear. Still, he was stuck to the floor and didn’t wish to tell his feet to move. He felt like an obstinate and desperate teen all over again.

“Harry!? I have to leave. Are you coming down?” There was more frustration now, her voice was simmering with impatience. Harry then remembered that she had to go do an interview with the newest beater for the Holyhead Harpies, who had switched over from the Tutshill Tornados earlier that year. Harry still didn’t want to move. 

“I’m coming. You can leave Gin! I’ll come and entertain Wood-- you can leave Love!”

With that, he heard her frustrated sigh which was followed by an amicable goodbye to Oliver, and the pop of her apparating away. Harry’s feet were still wary of moving, as his socks had fallen deeply in love with standing on this particular patch of floor and were therefore reluctant to move towards the drawing room. Why was Oliver here? What had he spoken with Ginny about? It took a moment, but his curiosity finally dissolved the sweet honey that stuck his feet to the floorboards, keeping him from moving, and he walked with care towards the drawing room. 

Oliver hadn’t really changed since Hogwarts. His dark hair was still windswept by a life spent on the broom, and was still tousled even in the years after he had switched to coaching Puddlemire until phasing himself out of the professional Quidditch world. His change of profession hadn’t made his well-maintained balance between burley and lean any less defined or attractive, though, and due to the slowed aging of wizards, he didn’t look a day over thirty. Harry took the time to examine him as Oliver sat on the sofa, the dark material of the other man’s muggle turtleneck sweater clinging to his shoulders. His oak eyes gleamed as they met Harry’s. His face had been etched a slightly weathered look, as he now spent his time in a small wizarding community on an island in Scotland, a short walk from the sea. He owned a broom repair shop, and Harry had sent his son’s James’s first broom there when he was too rough on it. They’d stayed in contact since then. 

“Alright, Harry?” He said, standing from the sofa. Ginny had picked out that sofa right after they got married. She liked the paisley pattern. Harry didn’t argue but he was immediately reminded of Birthdays spent at Mrs. Figg’s house, covered in cat hair and patterns. Harry didn’t like to question his fiery wife, and most of the things in this room and those around it were chosen by her. He assumed that she would know more of what was comfortable, and the end result did remind him of the everlasting comfort of the Burrough. 

Oliver’s words were soft and spoke to a desire to listen to Harry, instead of formalities. Harry forgot that when he was away from the Scotsman for long enough, that Oliver wasn’t cordial or polite, instead he was shockingly vulnerable. It must have been something Wood developed after Hogwarts, as his motivating and manic pre-game speeches were devoid of the remarkably present and disarming affection within his voice. Deep down in his chest, Harry felt the purring of the monster that lived there, who was calmed and seduced by Oliver’s very presence. 

“I donna ken if ye wanted to see me now, I know it’s been a little long for yer likin’.” He was clutching his cloak, which had been laying on his lap, between his hands now, fiddling with it. 

“No, Oliver it’s fine,” Harry said, and he saw the other man’s posture relax. “I’ve got this weekend off, and Ginny’s working, I could apparate out to the Isle of Skye then if that works for you--” 

“Aye. It does, Harry.” Wood said, cutting Harry off. The room hummed with the unsaid as Harry avoided eye contact. They never interacted here, in Harry’s house. Not with Harry’s wife so recently gone. 

“I’ll see you ‘en, hey, Harry?” Wood said, and he made his way towards the fireplace. Harry nodded, glancing at him quickly and exchanging a smile, his stomach churning. “We’ll need tae talk, then, though.” 

Harry was about to ask the man more, but he quickly dropped the powder and said clearly, “Th’ Isle of Skye” and was taken away by a flash of green fire. Harry sat down where Oliver had been and felt his eyes grow dry with the absence of tears. He didn’t like his newfound sadness, nor did he feel deserving of feeling the grief he should have felt in his early twenties. He was too busy then, acting too quickly upon the motions of adult life. He wished that he had taken the time to process and rework years of trauma, instead of jumping into marriage and a career. Maybe then he wouldn’t be avoiding therapy and making frequent secret trips to the Isle of Skye. 

Harry ripped himself from his thoughts and remembered the small journal he’d stuffed in his pocket. He still felt wary of the thing, remembering the dazed look in eleven-year-old Ginny’s eyes, messages written in blood on the walls. He shuttered. 

But this belonged to his godfather, and he had found it in his room. It shouldn’t be the same type of danger as the diary of Lord Voldemort himself, even though this little book did have the flavor of magic that Harry wasn’t aware of. He didn’t know if he should touch it. He did know who would have an opinion on the matter, however. He went to the drawing-room desk and pulled out a self-inking quill and some parchment, and wrote:

_Hermione,_

_Have you heard of a remembrance record or journal before?_

_Just curious,_

_Harry_

He summoned his tawny owl and instructed her to get a response as quickly as possible, and watched from the window, journal in his hands, as the small but quick owl disappeared past his line of sight.

It had been several hours of Harry trying to assign the Aurors under him to new cases, and he wasn’t making much progress. Every time he tried to look at the assignments and time tables, his hands would become itchy, and they’d be pulled towards the leatherbound book on the corner of his desk. He wanted to wait for Hermione’s response, but he knew that she was both busy and unlikely to reply till later this evening when the ministry workers finally got released. But who knew if she was using her new position as minister of magic to gather even more overtime. It could be hours until she got back to him. Harry was impatient.

He wasn’t often drawn to recklessness since his early days as an Auror, but he was itching to figure this diary out, and it was pulling at him like a powerful magnet. It still smelt of scorched magic, like something aching to be uncovered. Besides, it belonged, at least partially to Remus Lupin. How dangerous could it be? 

Very dangerous. Lupin was a skilled wizard that Harry didn’t really understand. It could be cursed. Snape could have left it for him to find. 

His mind continued to wage this battle until Harry acquiesced and picked up the book. He let it fall open to a page, and his fingers were immediately drawn to trace the date, June 1976. Then, the strangest feeling came over him, as if his magic was being pulled, sucked into the tiny pocket-sized book. Harry began to panic, an overwhelming sensation of deja vu overcoming his senses as he recalled his first time entering into a pensive. This was like that, except so much more jarring and disorienting. He first felt his magic leave him, and then he was hearing the babble of teenage voices, then smelling food.. Something like spiced cake, something sweet and nutty. Then he lost the sensation of sight, and then suddenly his feet were upon the ground, and he was standing, not sitting. He was back at Hogwarts.

Harry looked around him, and feeling began trickling into his body. He felt the warmth of the common room’s fireplace at his back and saw a number of students around him, draped over sofas. A group of girls were studying in the corner, huddling over a book that Harry somehow knew to be Herbology. Two couples sat near the entrance, having a conversation and passing a small muggle trinket around them, and then Harry saw what was right in front of him. Harry saw four teenage boys, slouched onto the couches directly in front of the fire. The furniture was arranged differently to when he was at Hogwarts, but he still recognized his favorite chair sitting between the two couches. No one sat there now. 

The person closest to Harry was a young man; small, stocky, and had a thick head of mousey dirty blonde hair, and was laughing at something the others had said. Slowly Harry’s vision cleared so he could see the others. Peter Pettigrew was surrounded by his three friends, and Harry got a distinct pain in his chest and behind his eyes as he realized that he was staring at his father. His father, who was handsome and reminiscent of Harry at 16, though his unruly hair fit his devilish face better, and his twinkling brown eyes were sweet and sharp at the same time. Harry felt his eyes sting and a wave of worry moved over him, his father was looking through him, it was as if he could reach out and touch them. The stinging behind his eyes at the sight of his father suddenly was overtaken by a feeling of absolute joy and acceptance, and also grueling physical pain. It almost made Harry double over, and want to rech. It felt like his bones were aching, like they’d been taped together with spellitape after being blown to smithereens. It wasn’t his pain, and it wasn’t his joy, but it felt extremely real. Harry pulled his attention back to the group of young men in front of him, trying to ignore the searing pain in his body, and that’s when he noticed a young Lupin sitting on the sofa across from James and Peter. 

Lupin was sitting next to Sirius, and Harry’s heart, beneath this extra pain that felt foreign in his body, Harry’s heart gave a lurch at seeing his godfather as a young man. Sirius’s face was glowing, and he was devastatingly handsome. Curling waves of dark hair perfectly framed his angular and giddy face, giving way to his bare neck and which sloped into defined shoulders and a lean body. He was wearing dark wash jeans and a t-shirt, and seemed absolutely free. He was the only boy not wearing the school uniform, but he seemed to revel in his difference, in his carefree ways. Sirius had his arms slung up onto the couch, dark eyes roaming around the room, making anyone looking at him blush. Lupin seemed demure next to him, and Harry was immediately drawn to his face. He was, like Sirius and James and Peter, full of mirth and rosy happiness, but Harry watched and saw a certain gingerly way he held himself, as if he could shatter into a million pieces. Like he was held together by unreliable stitches, ready to be undone at any moment. Sirius’s eyes stopped roaming the room and focused on Lupin. His hand moved swiftly and with a nondescript motion slipped off the couch to gently tousle Lupin’s curly hair. 

A shudder went down Harry’s spine as he felt the ghost of his godfather’s fingers tousle his own hair, and a warmth spread through his body, the pain forgotten for a moment. Young Lupin sighed, and Sirius quickly removed his hand from Lupin’s hair and picked up a conversation with James.

Harry then felt an immense breadth of emotions in that moment, like he was swept up in acceptance, and simultaneously deeply frustrated, all with the flavor of that earth-shattering pain in his bones. He couldn’t hear the voices over it, and he had to consciously shove this foreign feeling out of his head.

“---Rabbit recovered, Moony?” James asked, listlessly lounging back, yet his eyes sharpened like pinpoints onto Lupin across from him.

“You know it’s getting better- healing-, James. No need to worry about my furry little problem. It’d be wiser to be thinking about the Herbology exam next week, as I know you haven't studied.”

“Aced the last one without studying- he did… Why should he mess with the formula?” Sirius said with a barking laugh, winking at one of the girls who was staring at him across the room. She blushed and looked down, tucking her feathered hair behind her ear. 

Harry suddenly felt sick to his stomach. 

“Sure, natural intelligence might be a crutch, but I know at least Peter and I need to study.”

“I’m not so sure.. I might try James’ method this time round.” The stocky blonde squeaked, looking sheepishly up at James to see his proud smile. There was little resentment in his face, despite the jab at his intelligence. 

“That’s the spirit Pete! Never let studying rule your life… Your grades are really determined by the stars anyway… at least that’s what my nan said before I went to school!” James said, mirth woven into his every syllable. Harry was so overwhelmed at seeing him, not through pictures or memories, but seeing him almost in real-time. It was brilliant. He felt so free, like he was untouched by war and by sorrow. He was looking at his father. At Sirius. At Lupin. He could live without seeing poor Wormtail though. Harry still felt conflicted at seeing those beady little blue eyes. 

Lupin looked at James and rolled his eyes. “Bastard. You’re putting ideas into his head. Don’t do that.” His voice was quiet but sure, and he shifted on the sofa to get up. “Now, I’ve got a study date with Lily and I’ve run out of excuses for being late” He stood to leave, and Harry felt a deep pain resonate within his muscles. Exhaustion. Pure exhaustion. 

“Careful Remus-- James is jealous, that’s his future wife you’re talking about.” Sirius joked as James reached across to swat at his leg. “But I’ve got to beg off too. I’ve heard enough pining over Lily today, Prongs, and I’ve thought that I might steal her myself-” He said, winking at Lupin as James kicked his foot into Sirius’ shin, causing Sirius to let out another barking laugh.

Harry felt knocked off balance, and extremely flustered, and yet a calm set in over him, as Sirius stood up to leave with Lupin, leaving James on the couch with Peter. 

“You’re only allowed to study with us if you don’t make too much noise. And Madam Pince might be responsive, but she’s off-limits for flirting.” Lupin said to Sirius, and James snickered.

Sirius and Lupin walked towards the portrait exit, and Harry felt pulled with them, even as he tried to stay to look longer at his father. Harry was frustrated, as he tried to dig his heels into the ground and get a better look at James, but the walls around him and the student’s faces began to fade and distort as Sirius and Lupin left the common room, and suddenly Harry was next to them again, walking right beside the two young men. They were walking through the halls, making their way towards the library where students were filtering in and out and milling about, apparently doing anything but studying. Sirius turned towards Lupin to say something when suddenly a sharp rapping filled Harry’s head. Sirius was finishing his sentence as Harry felt his magic being dragged towards the sky, then his hearing and the rest of his senses followed as he found himself back at his desk. 

His owl was rapping at the glass window to the left of his desk, and he startled as he looked around to see himself back in his study. He stood stiffly to go unlatch the window, letting the bird perch herself on the edge of the sill, looking at him expectantly. Harry took the letter and then tossed some of the bird feed in his pocket to the satisfied owl. She took off, leaving him alone with Hermione’s response. 

_Harry_

_It’s funny you asked about this now--It’s a rare type of record kept by wizards, Arthur showed me his great uncle’s just the other day. I don’t know much about it, but I do know that it’s old magic, a pureblood tradition to memorialize particular events, such as children’s births or business deals. It’s less accurate than a pensive memory in some aspects, but more on a socioemotional level. It allows the individual who keeps one to feel exactly what they were feeling within that time, but doesn’t keep track of important details, like the writing on a piece of parchment or other insignificant details. It’s really fascinating! How did you come across the concept? Arthur’s just found the one he showed me, and it’s remarkable the protective spells keeping it from other people’s eyes. Even after the owner’s death, the book doesn’t let others in. It’s quite frustrating really. Molly was dying to see what Uncle Tiberius was keeping track of!_

_Are you coming over to celebrate George’s new line of products this weekend? Also, I talked to Dr. Clearwater and she’s agreed to let you take another appointment. I’ve taken the liberty to schedule it for next Monday, Harry. She’s expecting you, but lord knows she won’t be surprised if you don’t show. Do show, Harry. We’re worried, and I’m using all my power to keep slots open for you._

_Yours,_

_Hermione_

Harry sighed as he set down the letter, leaning back in his chair as his gaze turned to the ceiling. His bones still felt fragile, as they had in the memory, and he tried to will the pain away. He must have been feeling someone else’s pain and emotions, as they had left the minute he was pulled away, besides this small echo of pain. It had to have been Lupin’s memory, Harry thought, as he recalled the gingerly way he held himself. 

Hermione’s letter did little to comfort him, as it explained the idea that there were other records like this out there, but it raised more questions as to why the journal was letting Harry see memories, transporting him to these experiences even though he certainly didn’t own the diary. Harry reached for the little book and was shocked to find the leather cord tied around it, closing the book with a neat little bow. Harry certainly hadn’t left it that way, and the chord stubbornly resisted being tugged at, tightening itself further at his ministrations. Harry gave up and stared at the little bound volume for a second, unsure what to do. He decided to charm one of his desk drawers open and keep it there for the time being. 

The remaining week flew by quickly, and Harry didn’t stop to think about the little book very much, except when his insomnia kept him up at night. His insomnia was always worse when Ginny was home, the soft huff of her breath next to him on their bed like an invasion into his brain. He couldn’t sleep with her there, and he often snuck down to the living room to curl up on the couch. But even that didn’t work, only giving him small batches of restfulness. At least Ginny was leaving this Friday for Holland, and Harry could get several days of restful sleep while she was gone. 

On Friday, Harry returned to an empty Grimmauld Place, as he had expected. Ginny had patted his hand goodbye as she left this morning, charming her bags to float behind her. 

“Do something while I’m away, won't you? I’m sure that Neville would be open to meeting up for a drink. And George is having that party, you could go if you wanted to. I do worry you’ll become a hermit one of these days, Harry.” She said, tenderness and worry apparent on her face. Harry smiled back at her and promised her he’d try. Maybe he could meet up with Neville for drinks, but he wasn’t going to George’s party. He already had plans for that day. 

After work, the house was devastatingly quiet, and expected or not, that made his head spin. He needed to get out, Ginny was right about that. Harry tried in vain to tidy his hair, then apparated to Hogsmede, right to the doorstep of the Hog’s Head. Neville and he had a pleasant evening and ran into Lavender Brown on a childish gallivant to Honeydukes, but Harry went home early to make the most out of his empty bed.

He slept like a baby all night, and the dreams that usually woke him so consistently stopped their attack, letting Harry dissolve into the warm covers of his king size mattress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok ya'll, I've had this story raddling around in my head for years - literally years - and I'm trying to get it out of me so I can move on with my life. I didn't mean it to be as angsty as it is apparently becoming, but I swear Harry will find happiness, and the story will (hopefully) be spicier soon.


	3. Chapter 3

Harry woke in a quick panic, for a moment believing that the entire morning had slipped away from him. It was bright in his and Ginny’s bedroom, the sunlight spilling from the windows and dissolving into pools around the room. Dust danced in its stream, and Harry felt his brain moaning in his skull, a deep and resonant thrumming in his head. He sat up and tried to find the source of his waking, besides the light spattering his room. That’s when he noticed it, a deep and sonorous sound aching through his head. It was low in pitch and timbre and shook his entire being. Now that he noticed it, he couldn’t keep it from invading his head. It became impossibly loud and rhythmic. Harry briefly attempted to shake his head and manipulate his ear, but it was of no use. This sound wasn’t trapped inside him, like water after a swim, it was all around him. He got up and stumbled around the room in nothing but his pajama bottoms, trying to determine if the noise was coming from downstairs. It appeared to be from everywhere. Harry fumbled with the doorknob, which he always kept shut, even when he knew no one was in the house, and when he finally walked out into the hallway he realized he had made a mistake. The horrible noise was even louder in the hallway. He leaned over the stair railing and tried to make the pounding stop. It was ridiculous, and the volume didn’t turn down when he went back into his bedroom to find his wand.

Still decked in his pajamas, Harry thudded down the stairs, his bare feet shocked at the cold of the wood, but he kept going. The sound must be coming from somewhere in the house. It couldn’t be in his head, it didn’t feel like it was in his head. He walked into the living room, then the drawing-room, and finally he turned away and stomped up the stairs, his head squeezed between his hands. Then, on a last-ditch effort, he shoved open the door to his office, next to the boy’s rooms. A distinct clattering was coming from one of his desk drawers. The middle drawer on the left side. Harry grabbed the knob and pulled, and then suddenly the noise, and the rattling stopped.

Silence broke into his head like a burglar, and Harry loosened his grip on the drawer and sunk to the ground. The silence was worse than any irritating noise, he realized, as he sunk his head into his hands and began to cry. He still wanted to know why that drawer was rattling, and why it caused such a horrible tone to invade his eardrums, but he couldn’t. All he could do was cry. Harry found himself to be utterly useless in that moment, and for more than several moments after. 

Kreacher was slowly inching into the room and towards him when Harry looked up. At meeting his eye, Kreacher quickly scuttled away again, as if to say that even he wouldn’t care for Harry in this state, even after being bound to serve him. Harry snorted. He could hear the elf saying softly to himself “Kreacher didn’t see nothing. No, Kreacher doesn’t have to clean the office today. Kreacher didn’t see Master Potter- Master Potter’s gone luny Kreacher thinks. Master didn’t see Kreacher...” as he moved away. His mumbling was silenced with a deafening crack as the elf disappeared. 

Harry shifted and he got himself to stand and peer inside the drawer. It was where he left the remembrance record. The book looked so annoyingly innocent to Harry, sitting there, still bound up, and apparently unwilling to undo the knots it did to itself. Maybe that first time was a fluke. Maybe it would never open itself to Harry again. Harry felt a twinge of sadness at that. He’d never get to figure out who put it there, under Sirius’s pillow; why Harry found it so easily, when everything else in the house gave up a fight to stay hidden, stay in place. 

Harry was still thinking about that damn book when he apparated to The Isle of Skye three hours later, dressed in a green knit sweater and blue jeans. He stopped for a moment as he appeared at the far edge of the village, looking around muggle Broadford. None of the muggles took a second glance at him as he walked down the street, running an anxious hand over the stubble he hadn’t shaved. Oliver certainly wouldn’t mind. In fact, he would love it. Harry quickened his walking pace as he exited the township, walking along the road that led towards the sea. He wasn’t worried about being late, if he was, he would have apparated right to Oliver’s door. But that wasn’t the point. He liked this tiny moment of reflection he had once every two weeks or so. He breathed in the highland air and thought of nothing but the crunch of gravel beneath his trainers, and the wide expanse of sky and sea around him. He could feel the wild ancient calming magic beneath him, as most of the wild places in Europe still had, and it calmed the cloud, banishing it into the blue, at least for a little while. Harry smiled, and still more of the tension fell behind him on his brisk walk to the cottage by the sea. The wind whipped around him and he threw his hands into the air. The walk took half the time it usually did, as Harry was more than eager to see Oliver. 

The cottage was sweet, rustic, and stood out from the hills with its sharp angles and weathered wood. Harry approached it and stopped before he knocked on the door. He caught his breath, feeling the ruddiness bleed into his cheeks. That’s how Oliver found him, a flushed, windswept, and smiling man whose green eyes were made more effervescent by the bare green lushness of the landscape around him. They didn’t exchange words like usual. Instead, Oliver put his calloused hands on Harry's waist and needily pulled him close. Oliver barely got the door closed before Harry found himself pressed up against it, the Scotsman's burning lips pressed against his own, his tongue making Harry dizzy, making Harry grateful for the door against his back. The roar in his chest was undeniable, he felt so alive, like a small shoot of grass breaking through the ground, the passion within him pushing and fighting against Oliver’s lips. The kiss became a battle for a delicious release, and Harry quickly found his footing, his hands on Oliver’s shoulders, leading him towards the bedroom. Harry knew this open floorplan like something out of a daydream, knew this man like something out of a confusing teenage fantasy. They were anything but shy today. That was something left behind for the first months of their agreement. 

Harry got Oliver through the doorway, gasping as the older man left a bruising mark upon his collarbone, sending shivers down his spine, and through the fabric of his being. He then pushed Oliver back onto the bed, seeing the cheeky grin he gave him, half wanton desire, half teasing acknowledgment. His dark, deep brown eyes clouded over with lust, however, as Harry worked his way over Wood, running his hand down to the hem of the simple shirt he was wearing, and further, so that he stroked the other man’s hardening cock through the thin fabric of his denim jeans. Oliver took the initiative and yanked the simple t-shirt over his head, groaning as Harry moved his hands away, pushing Oliver further on to the bed so that he could lick and nibble his way down the newly exposed flesh towards the trail of hair disappearing into his underwear. Harry unbuckled Oliver’s belt and unzipped the jeans, feeling the other man’s shaft pressing urgently against the thin, soft fabric of his pants. 

“ ‘Arry” Oliver mumbled as Harry pressed on, making quick work of his own shirt and kissing all along the hemline of Oliver’s undergarments. “Harry. Harry!” Harry didn’t want to stop, and he couldn’t really hear Oliver over the pleasure in his head, the feeling of himself growing hard, his cock pushing painfully against its fabric constraints.

“Harry-- would ye luek at me Harry. Please, Harry.” He looked up then, and saw something pained in Oliver’s eyes, the weary lines on his face growing sharper. 

“What is it?” Harry asked, feeling the smile fall from his face. 

“This will be the last time.” Oliver was earnest, and a small relief slid over his features as he said it. 

“This is the last time we can dae this. I’m sorry. Yer wonderful, Harry.” Harry couldn’t tell if he wanted to laugh or to cry. The one salvation of the last two years was ending. Oliver wouldn’t be here, waiting for him at the edge of the world. “It’s time tae move on. For both o’ us.” Oliver reached over and tipped Harry’s chin up, his smooth calluses brushing against the stubble so purposefully left on his cheek. Oliver leaned in and gently kissed along Harry’s jawline, till he slipped to his mouth. Oliver’s kisses felt like being caught up in an ocean wave, taken along for the ride, floating through the swells and the conversation between their lips. Oliver helped Harry all the way onto his bed, and lowered himself over him, till Harry felt the weight of his leg between his own, and Oliver’s hand unbuttoning his pants. 

Harry wondered why he didn’t say anything, as he gasped, Oliver softly stroking his prick, his hand slick with precum. His back arched towards Oliver’s touch and he felt himself moving closer to him. They spared no time with foreplay, something urgent and primal took over, as they were relieved of their trousers and their pants, delighting in the friction between them, as Oliver quickly cast a lubrication spell, working Harry’s arsehole with deliberate motions that left Harry on the brink of orgasm, as horny and quick as a teenage boy. Pleasure overtook him as Oliver flipped him on his back and took him missionary style, both of them shuddering at each stroke. It didn’t often happen, but it felt right that they climaxed together today.

Harry really was marveling at his spinelessness as he drifted in and out of consciousness, dosing against Oliver’s bicep. Where was his famed Gryffindor bravery now, if not stuck behind the unsaid words in his throat, pulsing at his larynx. 

“Why?” Harry’s own voice sounded sad and a little pathetic, horse with the aftermath of desire. 

“It’s hard tae say, Harry. I wish it was an easy answer, an’ I guess it’s not too complex. I needed ye, an’ I know ye needed me. But there's a point where we’re not needing each other anymore. It’s time to find something fixed. Something permanent. Challenging.”

“Challenging- Oliver--what if I don’t want challenging. What if I’m ok with easy?” Harry tried not to feel like he was whining. He didn’t expect Oliver’s low rumble of a chuckle as he glanced over at him.

“Yer Harry Potter. Ye attract trouble, mate. It’s ‘bout time you found it. I’m too safe for you. Ye only found me because we both we’re escaping something even more mundane. Ye need more than this. More than Ginny. More than me. Yer bored. Unsatisfied. That’s no way to spend yer life. Ye deserve more, Harry.” 

The words settled deep into him. Oliver, with his strong steadiness, his eyes darkened with lust, Harry’s name caught in his throat right before orgasm. He was as burned into his mind as the image of Voldemort’s body, and the smell of his first Hogwarts meal. As Ginny, on his wedding night. He couldn’t help thinking it then, and he couldn’t help it now, in another man’s bed.

_ It was supposed to be so much more beautiful than this. This can’t be right. _

Oliver’s hand traced a circle on the soft skin of Harry’s stomach, then sat up straight to give Harry a soft, frustratingly attractive smile, before padding away towards the bathroom. Harry watched his bare arse as he walked away, and the rug felt like it was officially pulled out from beneath his feet. What was he doing? What was he doing here? Why was this ending? For the past two years, his thoughts had avoided dealing with the reality of his situation as it escalated. First, it was innocent and avoidable. Oliver had stood too close to him, had brushed his arm as he was handing him tea. He spent more time there, on the Isle of Skye, at the house at the end of the world. It slowly shifted, morphed, and Harry began having those dreams again, the dreams he had all throughout Hogwarts.

It was dark, and warm within the dream, and someone was worshiping his body, stroking him, licking him, and it wasn’t female. It was rough and remarkably masculine. Sometimes he got a glimpse of the man’s face, in school, it would be striking grey eyes, or Dean’s laugh, Ron’s hands. It was a conglomeration of people, bringing him right to the edge of a cliff, and he’d always wake up with a start, with stained sheets and a prayer that no one in his dormitory could hear. Sometimes his wet dreams were distinctly women, soft breasts and hips, and long flowing hair, and Harry decided it was normal to have both. Teenagers were horny and he was surrounded by boys all day and night. It was natural, not worrisome. He did get worried that one time he awoke to a powerful orgasm, brought on by the sneering timber of Snape’s voice. That was a horrifying moment in sixth year, and Harry wasn’t willing to relive it. He couldn’t meet the greasy git's eyes for a week. Still, it was juvenile stuff. It certainly wasn’t as weird as his dorm mates discussions of kink and wanking, which Harry tended to ignore. He’d rather spend his time perseverating over the Marauder's Map, or even studying. He took to casting muffliato over his bed at night, just in case. 

Yet, when Harry had started rebuilding his friendship with Oliver the summer Albus got back from his first year at Hogwarts. The dreams returned. He didn’t think of Ginny in the night anymore. That had ended, died out with their sexual relationship after Lily’s birth. They had tried, but nothing was the same anymore. For their daughter’s childhood, they were both content with companionship. 

The dreams were more intense now, Harry thought it was due to his sexual experience and his overwhelming frustration. They now had full faces, mainly Oliver’s face, filled with lust and desire. They were all-consuming, vivid, and Harry wished that they would stop. They didn’t stop, not even when Harry started sleeping with Oliver. If anything, they got more specific. Oliver in the shower in the Quidditch locker room. Oliver in the Gryffindor common room. Oliver at his house- stretched out on the bed. Sometimes the retired quidditch player’s body was replaced with something paler, leaner, the noises less rough, softer, and sensual. Harry didn’t think about it. Harry hadn’t really thought about any of it since it started. If he thought about it, he didn’t enjoy the sex as much.

The first time Oliver kissed him, it was like puzzle pieces falling into place. Before he had done anything sexual, within his state as a virgin, he had imagined sex so loftily. His first time, really all the times that he’d spent with Gin were less than that. Good and intimate, spontaneous, and deeply thrilling, but not right. Something was fundamentally off from what he expected it to be. There was no overwhelming pleasure, no fireworks. Sex wasn’t as good as it was in his dreams. He remembered seeing Ginny in front of him, her pleasure rising as he touched her the way that she liked, the way she showed him, and he saw within her more pure lust than he had ever felt within himself. It made him feel deficient.  _ It was supposed to be so much more beautiful than this.  _

Oliver made it beautiful, the beginning of their.. arrangement was dark and lovely and filled with lust. It was how 16 and 17 year old Harry imagined it. Every touch Oliver brushed over his body felt like his skin coming alive, he felt his muscles shuddering with his fingers. It was like reliving and revising the first time he was ever touched. It was like the first time he cast a spell. He was weak under Oliver’s fingers, mercilessly thoughtless and lost within the time they spent together. The air between them was electric during sex, sparking, and shimmering with the joining of their bodies, the vulnerable place where their magic touched in the space between them. Harry felt the pressure building in his chest as he contemplated the loss of that, that sweet metallic tang on his tongue in the aftermath of their coupling. He didn’t think he had that with Ginny. But then, he didn’t remember the last time they’d tried. Harry remembered a few months ago when she draped her arm over his hip and reached for him. He couldn’t get hard. She was frustrated with him, and they spent their nights with their backs turned to one another now. 

Weirdly enough, even when everything was new with Oliver, it didn’t feel like adultery. Harry questioned it now, sitting on Oliver’s bed, listening to the shower from the next room. It wasn’t like Ginny needed him to be loyal. He was loyal, and neither of them doubted that. In some way, Harry felt like Gin knew. They had separated sex from their marriage at least nine or ten years ago, but neither felt like talking about how their instances of lovemaking were getting farther and farther apart. Neither felt like telling anyone about it. They were the perfect couple, no one suspected. Harry did wonder about it over the years, how Ginny’s insatiable appetite and near-constant need at the beginning of the relationship had so quickly dissipated at the birth of their last child. It was strange for Harry, as she stopped waking him up in the middle of the night, or casting muffliato in the living room, or the kitchen, or at Harry’s office at work, or the bathroom at a party. Her spontaneity left the equation. It all just tapered off. And besides a few half-hearted attempts in the most recent years, both seemed completely contented. Truthfully, Harry found contentment again when Oliver slipped into his life. And yet, Ginny was the one with the libido between them. Harry didn’t doubt that there was someone for her. Someone on those long business trips. 

Harry waited for the monster in his chest to roar at the thought of her soft, feminine mouth kissing someone else’s, expecting the surge of jealousy he used to feel at Hogwarts, but he was left with nothing but a void in his chest. She wasn’t his anymore. He had fallen into a different existence, without thought to the consequences, without a true breadth of understanding of what he was doing. He was sleeping with another man, and yet, every time his brain would remind him of that fact, he dissociated. It wasn’t men that he liked. It was Oliver. Just Oliver.

Harry picked up his clothing from the floor, feeling a deep onset of unease at the prospect of leaving without saying goodbye. Without a chaste kiss at the door. Without Oliver’s playful eyes full of unspoken promises. Filled with ideas of an open door and ready and willing lips, of experimentation and teenage dreams fulfilled. The sweet forgotten attraction of a young Harry wanking in the locker room showers. 

The feeling of discomfort and rising panic only increased as he pulled on his clothing, feeling worn denim tickling his skin and the scratchy softness of the woolen sweater. Self-loathing rose up in the back of his throat, as he remembered Molly giving it to him four years before. Christmas day was never quiet in the Potter household, and Harry and Ginny waited downstairs with the presents as the kids ran down to the kitchen to celebrate, before flooing over to their grandparents for the remainder of the day. In a rare quiet moment amongst the signature Weasley chaos, Molly sat next to him on the couch, as George and Teddy led a gaggle of preteens and children around the gardens, tossing snowballs and enchanting snowmen to lumber around. Squeals were heard from beyond the windows as the rest of the adults lounged throughout the house, cradling mugs of eggnog and leisurely raiding platters of sweets and sausage rolls. Mrs. Weasley pulled out a modestly wrapped parcel and watched as Harry unwrapped it. Harry could sense the joy in her countenance as he let out a small gasp, holding up the sweater to examine it

“It’s wonderful, Molly.” He said, and it was. It was thick and soft, the color of the darkest of leaves and the brightness of spring grass all at the same time. The intricate patterns shifted in the afternoon light as Molly let out a satisfied sigh. 

“I saw the wool in Diagon Alley and I knew it would bring out your eyes perfectly. I know it’s not the traditional Weasley sweater- but I couldn’t help myself.” Mrs. Weasley’s soft brown eyes were sparkling, and Harry immediately gave her a hug, a flood of gratefulness for her constant motherly attention consuming him. He’d never been treated like a son in law, he wasn’t relegated to the infinitesimal amount of formality that Hermione, Flur, and the other daughters-in-law were treated to, Molly and Arthur treated him more like their seventh son. He couldn't have wished for better inlaws, and yet here he was, in the green sweater, standing in his lover's house, with little to no thought of his wife- their daughter’s feelings.Stress filled his stomach and wound a tight grasp around his organs. Harry felt sick. 

Harry wanted to say something to Oliver before he left, but decided to go without seeing the burly man again. He walked to the door and disappeared, trying to focus twice as hard as usual so he wouldn’t end up splinched out of absentmindedness. Everything was flooding around him, like a dizzying tunnel pressing in on him. He only stayed home for a moment, then he decided it was too painful to be there. He flooed to work.


End file.
